Muse 2024

MUSE XXXXII MARYMOUNT SCHOOL OF NEW YORK LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE 2024
MUSE

MUSE
Marymount School Literary Arts Magazine
Marymount School, 115 East 97th Street, New York, New York 10029

Editors
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Shirley Fernandez
Gisselle Rodriguez
Leah Backler Ogawa
Calleigh Blyth
Maya Kao-Gwin
Meron Zerihun
Staff
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Chloe Brackett
Phoebe Buzby Karzis
Lucie Coeny
Alex Harris
Clarissa McCarthy
Maia Denhoy
Lara DeVera
Katie Gaffigan
Cassidy McGee
Parker Skillman
Moderators
Elizabeth Davis
Paloma Yannakakis
Cover art: Calleigh Blyth
Cover design: Maya Kao-Gwin
Section page art: Calleigh Blyth
Section page design: Maya Kao-Gwin

Letter from the Editor
Thank you for opening the 2024 Muse. Each year, we look forward to curating
the breathtaking talent of the Marymount student body. To every student
who was brave enough to submit work to be included, we thank you. Your
courage does not go unnoticed.
Our organizing framework for this year’s edition is something fundamental—the
elements: Air, Fire, Earth, and Water. These elements each represent a
set of ideas, emotions, or tones. We have shared our understanding of each to
encourage you, the viewer, to peruse the work in each section with these guided
interpretations in mind.
Air is playful, fresh, contemplative—an Air piece will leave you with a smile
as you consider something new. The works in Fire are passionate, vibrant, and
intense. Please do not be alarmed to find your work in Fire, as it is a testament
to the power of your creation. A work in Earth is stable, strong, and rooted; it
grounds the ungrounded and gives meaning to the mundane. Water is serene,
reflective, and deep. Water can be the kiss of an ocean spray, or a wave ready
to consume, and the works in the section reflect this range.
Finally, we would like to thank everyone whose labor makes the Muse possible.
This includes our moderators, Dr. Davis and Dr. Yannakakis, the dedicated
editors and staff members, and you, the reader, for whom we make the Muse.
The Muse is a celebration of the creative brilliance present throughout the Marymount
student body, and we relish sharing it with all of you. We leave you to
explore the elements!
—Shirley Fernandez, Editor

Section I: Air
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Living Room, Noor Wilson..........................................................Photography
In Pages Unread, Magnolia Butler........................................................Poetry
Lavender Bees, Chloe Brackett...................................................Photography
White Wings, Clarissa McCarthy............................................................Poetry
The Gift of Music, Ava Bitar...................................................................Prose
Excitement, Maria Naughton......................................................................Art
Big Smile, Hannah Wu................................................................................Art
Him and her, Shirley Fernandez..............................................................Prose
Untitled, Yvonne Locatell-Harris.................................................................Art
The Old Tire Swing, Clarissa McCarthy...............................................Poetry
The Ballad of Mr. Bones (A Sestina), Emily Carbone......................Poetry
Pick Your Poison, Chloe Brackett...............................................Photography
How to Write a Personal Essay, Bebe Currie......................................Prose
Sunlit Peaks, Noor Wilson...........................................................Photography
The Illusion, Sofia Blankenbuehler..............................................................Art
LaundroCat, Leah Backler Ogawa.........................................................Poetry
Asbury Road, Naomi Soeda...................................................................Poetry
Mountain and Moon, Alanna Barry..........................................................Art
Solitary Stroll, Calleigh Blyth......................................................Photography
Goodnight Kiss, Nora Heegan..............................................................Poetry

Section II: Fire
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For your safety / Stand clear of the closing doors, please., Yvonne
Locatell-Harris...........................................................................................Poetry
Confusion, Sahana Seth...............................................................................Art
Cardinal, Zoe Michael Daraviras............................................................Poetry
The Taste of Memory, Yazmin Perez........................................................Art
Catch, Slide, Push, Katie de Weerth.....................................................Poetry
The Evil and Dark Diary of a Tortured Emo(tional) Boy, Norah
Brennan.......................................................................................................Prose
Thorns, Gemma Garbuio.............................................................................Art
Lonesome, Calleigh Blyth.............................................................Photography
Fallen Leaves and Cynicism, Julia Wasserberger................................Poetry
Gallery: Dunya Artal.................................................................................Art
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year, Amelia Gioia...............Poetry
Rivers Won’t Stop Running, Norah Brennan......................................Poetry
Septober, Lucie Coeny..................................................................Photography
The Humming of a Home, Winnie Newman.....................................Poetry
Circular Indifference, Tess O’Donoghue.............................................Poetry
City Storm, Chloe Brackett..........................................................Photography
Something’s Wrong with Me?, Calleigh Blyth........................................Art
THINGSHAVEGOTTENWEIRD, Lucie Coeny.......................................Art
Red Leather Sketchbook, Calleigh Blyth..............................................Prose
Flowers, Ava Campione...............................................................................Art
Dog, Gisselle Rodriguez............................................................................Poetry
Cityscape, Emilia McHugh..........................................................................Art
Aug 15 and In the folds of the girls’ veil, Dunya Artal....................Poetry

Section III: Earth
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Conecting Lines, Yazmin Perez..................................................................Art
I Once Wished to be Seventeen, Cecilia McCarthy............................Poetry
How I Learned to Be Proud to Be Dominican, Shirley Fernandez..Prose
Untitled, Yvonne Locatell-Harris.................................................................Art
Self Portrait, Emilia McHugh....................................................................Art
Home, New Delhi, Sahana Seth............................................................Poetry
The Stomach Bug, Gigi Goodwin.........................................................Poetry
Rainshowers, Calleigh Blyth.......................................................................Art
Gallery: The Forest for the Trees, Dunya Artal, Carolina McCool,
Liesel Hightower, Yazmin Perez......................................................................Art
Archway, Prishaa Shrimali............................................................Photography
Grand-Quest for Grand-Parents, Chloe Brackett..............................Prose
To the Buoy and Back, Gemma Garbuio...............................................Prose
Wispy, Leah Backler Ogawa..........................................................Photography
The Beat of My Feet, Annabella Parashac............................................Poetry
Gallery: Yvonne Locatell-Harris............................................................Art
In the Stillness of Snow, Alex Harris...................................................Poetry
Trees, Dunya Artal........................................................................................Art
Untitled, Yvonne Locatell-Harris.................................................................Art
Metamorphosis, Christina Isom...........................................................Poetry
Arrived, Eva Dec-Prat..................................................................................Art
Dock, Emilia McHugh..................................................................................Art
Palace, Alex Harris........................................................................Photography
Sympathy for the Salted Slug, Chloe Brackett...................................Poetry

Section IV: Water
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Blue City of Sunshine, Sophia Morris.....................................................Art
Surfing Pantoum, Julia Wasserberger...................................................Poetry
Rain’s Reset, Ava Bitar..........................................................................Poetry
Morning Glow, Nightime Grace, Aliyah Andre................................Poetry
When I Grow Up, Alexandra Woo........................................................Poetry
Embracing Change, Isabella Rosero....................................................Poetry
Stairs of Blue, Alanna Barry......................................................................Art
A Flood of Waters on the Earth, Bebe Currie...................................Poetry
Inner Peace, Emily Carbone..................................................................Poetry
The End of the World, Noor Wilson.........................................Photography
The Mysteries That Lie Below, Sophia Rückriegel...........................Poetry
Lament for the Old Lady (Acapulco), Sophia Rückriegel................Poetry
What Sings in Me, Norah Brennan......................................................Poetry
Self Portrait, Maria Naughton...................................................................Art
Spiraling, Gemma Garbuio...................................................................Poetry
My Enemy, Emma Wagner.....................................................................Poetry
The Concert, Mia Tagore......................................................................Poetry
Canal, Alex Harris........................................................................Photography
Ritual and Life in Life, Yazmin Perez.................................................Poetry
Feather, Meara Maulik................................................................................Art

Air
Playful
Contemplative
Fresh
New

Living Room
Noor Wilson
10 Muse

In Pages Unread
Magnolia Butler
Amidst life’s ceaseless swirl, I scarcely find
The time to lose myself in pages turned;
Since school, and work, and life are all combined,
So many of my books I have not learned.
In silence, savoring stories by myself
With time to spare, my reading was robust.
Now all possessions sit along my shelf,
So lonely without me, collecting dust.
But I remember hours, when I’d climb
To enter realms where fiction’s magic gleams,
A sanctuary found within the lines
In words and vivid stories, my heart’s dreams.
But when you close the page and shut the book,
It leaves a longing for one final look.
Air 11

Lavender Bees
Chloe Brackett
12 Muse

White Wings
Clarissa McCarthy
While I’m walking to the church,
A butterfly stops me,
Its fragile white wings
Stark against my black mourning clothes.
As it lightly flutters
In its fleeting beauty of life,
The weight of my heart anchors me
To the ground.
Does it know my heart suffers,
Held between the doors
Of heaven and earth?
That I am missing someone
Who loves me eternally?
Yet as I haul myself forward, the butterfly follows, and
Its whispers of hope bring light to my darkness.
Though the one I mourn may be lost,
And I survey the vacant field alone,
The warmth of his hand on my shoulder remains.
I reminisce about our early mornings
Watching the abundant life surrounding us
From the familiar wooden porch that my toes still hug.
As I’m torn between past and present,
The butterfly flutters along with me,
Preserving his everlasting essence.
Air 13

The Gift of Music
Ava Bitar
I
skipped along the sidewalk next to my mom as the early December snow crunched under my
bright pink boots. As we headed towards home, my head spun in the direction of a brightly
lit glass window filled with an array of instruments of varying shapes and sizes. I pressed my
five-year-old nose up against the glass as my mom named them violins, cellos, trumpets, flutes,
and guitars. I pointed to the window and picked a small violin in the corner. I had seen the violin
played before at the ballet or a Broadway show and was fixated on how so much sound came out
of such a small wooden box. I pleaded with my mom with a solemn vow to practice every day, and
to my surprise she gave in under the condition that I would have to commit to the instrument for
five years. I agreed eagerly, not knowing that this challenge would change the next eleven years of
my life. I beamed as we finished our walk home, cradling the small case like a brand new doll. That
very week, I was signed up for music lessons at a local music conservatory.
The excitement coursed through my veins
as I stepped through the front doors of the gigantic
building. I could hear the echoes of a
melody wafting through the echoing halls as I
made the climb to the top floor to meet with my
music teacher for the first time. Her calming
voice and her kind demeanor eased my nerves.
However, to my disappointment, I spent an
hour learning how to stand correctly, how to
hold my violin, and what each part of the instrument
was called. I thought that playing
the violin would mean jumping straight into a
piece and getting carried away by the music.
In my head, the reality of practice and time
that went into playing an instrument was an
afterthought. That night, I contemplated going
back to that magical store and returning
my once prized possession, but the echo of the
promise I had made to my mother reverberated
in my head. Weeks later, I was still learning
posture and the strings of the violin. A, B, C, D,
E, F, G were the notes that replayed in my mind
until they no longer sounded like letters but a
melody that was stuck in my brain like a stamp.
Surprisingly, reading music came easier to me
than reading numbers on a math worksheet or
figuring out verbs and adjectives in English. As
I read small notes on pages of music, my brain
put songs together like pieces to a puzzle. Four
weeks later I had moved onto the Twinkles, the
first song in my Suzuki violin book. I was filled
with anticipation at the prospect of finally playing
a “real song.” My newfound success lit a fire
within me to work even harder and to appreciate
the joy that came from seeing my growth
and achievement.
On top of private lessons at the conservatory,
I was also required to join a group lesson.
Every Tuesday and Thursday after my lessons,
I would head down the hall with kids from
ages five to fifteen. Every week, each one of us
would be told to perform a solo for the group.
Week after week, I watched in awe as the older
kids performed their complicated pieces with
vibrato, key change, accidentals, and a smooth
rhythm that could inspire a deep emotion in
others. These kids intimidated me but also inspired
me. I hoped that one day, when I played,
14 Muse

I would put the same feeling in others that they
put in me.
When my day to perform finally came, I
contemplated staying in bed under the safety
of my covers. Social anxiety made interacting
with others a stressful task, let alone performing
for a group of strangers! Eye contact, speaking
up in class, and even saying a friendly hello in
the hallways were all social interactions I tended
to avoid. Things like monsters, insects, and the
dark were never as scary as meeting someone
new for the first time or having the spotlight on
me. As I stepped into the music room, a wave
of nausea and fear pushed me back outside like
a gust of wind and directed me to the bathroom
where I planned to hide. Moments later,
the door swung open as my mom rushed in to
find me on the verge of
tears. My mother helped
me take deep breaths in
and out, then took my
hands in hers and said a
prayer over me. With a
renewed sense of peace,
I stood in front of the
group, ready to play. I
“Week after week, I
watched in awe as the
older kids performed
their complicated pieces.”
took a deep breath in and out and began. My
small hands began to shake, but the rhythm of
the piano and the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle
Little Star” kept my feet planted into the floor
like tree roots. Once I began, the nervous wave
of fear was lifted from my stomach and swept
away by my bow strokes as if I were a part of
the song. Although the performance might not
have been my best, I started to see music as a
way to take myself out of my head and begin
to overcome the hold that my anxiety had over
me.
At the age of twelve, I received the incredible
opportunity to perform a playthrough of
multiple pieces with a group of students my age
at Carnegie Hall. This experience was far out
of my comfort zone, and quite frankly, knowing
how many people would be in the audience terrified
me. However, as I scanned the multitude,
my focus fell upon my grandfather sitting in the
first row next to my parents with an expression
of pure joy and pride to be seeing me play on
stage. My grandpa had always loved classical
music, and he was the main reason I developed
a love for instruments. Days at his house were
spent in pink tutus, twirling around, pretending
my feet were ballet slippers on pointe, and
dancing to the melodic rhythm of a symphony.
His contagious laughter and beaming smile entertained
our imaginations. As I stood on a stage
that seemed to span for miles, all I could do was
play as best I could, knowing that I would see a
look of pride on his face no matter how well I
performed. When he visited
us, the routine of pulling out
my violin and playing my latest
piece had become a familiar
one. As the years went by,
he could be seen in the crowd
of every recital and orchestra
performance, supporting my
triumphs and failures alike.
Throughout my journey with stage fright and
anxiety, he kept me centered and reminded me
that playing the violin is a unique talent and gift
meant to be shared with others. He showed me
that being there for someone was the greatest
gift you could give, and despite his age or his
various health scares, he always showed up for
my sisters and me, and his support meant the
world.
One of my last memories of my grandpa
was during the pandemic, when he was one of
the first to be critically ill with Covid. Over the
phone I could hear his weak voice and shaky
breathing. Our only option to say our goodbyes
was over speakerphone while he lay alone in
his hospital bed. The only way I knew how to
Air 15

connect with him in his final moments was by
playing one of his favorite pieces on my violin.
Through the chaos and sadness that overwhelmed
me, the music was a source of peace.
Although I couldn’t see him at that moment,
I visualized him, eyes closed, listening to every
chord and note I played with a smile across his
face.
I still carry his words, memory, and joyful
spirit with me while on stage for a recital
or throughout an orchestra performance. My
eleven years as a violinist have helped me overcome
my anxiety and given me the confidence
to play for others, which was always a dream.
Healing from his absence has been difficult, but
honoring his memory through my practice and
performance has made it feel as though he has
been with me through it all.
Excitement
Maria Naughton
16 Muse

Big Smile
Hannah Wu
Air 17

Him and her
Shirley Fernandez
My name is Horemyokneigh Booklover, and I am different from everyone else. My parents
died before I was born, and unfortunately, I was adopted by a CEO who never cared
for me except by giving me all I ever wanted. When I was two, I renamed myself Horemyokneigh,
The name of my favorite character from my favorite underground book series, Harpy
Protter. Ever since I was conceived, I’ve just been different from other girls. I am interested in books
and math, not makeup and nails like all the h—women around me, and they always exclude me
because of it. Now, I own a used bookstore—Horemyokneigh’s Harpy Hovel. While other women
are interested in being doctors or lawyers, I know owning a local bookstore in New Hork City is
right for me.
Every day, I wake up at 3pm with dark circles
under my eyes from reading books all night,
but the dark circles magically disappear as soon
as someone looks into my blinding sky-bluehazel-lilac-amber
orbs. Today, I am awakened
from my slumber when the 7-foot-tall stack of
books I sleep with falls on me again. The second
I see the time, I start rushing to get ready
and open my shop. I dodge my 15 cats, 2 dogs,
18 squirrels, 3 penguins, 7 gorillas, 8 chimpanzees,
23 hummingbirds, 8 dwarves, and 6 elephants
and head to my closet. Animals love me
so much that they follow me everywhere like I
am a Disney princess. It’s so embarrassing and
annoying! I finally make my way over to my industrial
walk-in closet; I look at myself in the
mirror and sigh as I notice the same dull face
and figure staring back at me: cat eyeglasses,
large, perky breasts, and curvy hips that makes
my waist look even smaller than it already is. I
hate how I look. My soft, pale, delicate skin, my
long, curled eyelashes, my small button nose,
and my red, plump lips fill me with despair. I
check to see if I’ve grown from my stature of
5’2”, but I’m disappointed when I see my petite
self staring back. My friends make fun of me in
the mornings because I always smell like vanilla,
rose petals, and strawberries, and my thick
caramel-blonde-brown hair falls along my back
in smooth waves before I throw it in a messy
bun for work. I’m just different from other
women, so I refuse to have female friends now.
After I put my hair up, I look around my
apartment for clothes to wear. Since I’m just so
different, I’m also a slob. My rumpled designer
clothes are thrown everywhere. Oh no! My
oversized limited edition Louis Vuitton cashmere
sweater has a wrinkle! What am I supposed
to wear now? A low-cut T-shirt that highlights
my physique perfectly? No thanks! Diving
into my massive pile of smelly Gucci socks, I
find an unmatched pair that doesn’t work with
my outfit. Perfect! After putting on my vintage
paint-splattered (did I mention I dabble in art)
Gucci cargo pants and my 24k gold sweatshirt,
I walk out the door and embrace the fresh air.
Before heading to my bookstore every day, I
stop by my local Starlucks to grab a mud coffee.
It’s different from what other women buy, but
it’s the best drink ever—sour and salty sometimes,
savory others—I can never get enough.
As I’m paying, the guy taking my order looks at
me weirdly—smiling, laughing, and winking—
but that’s probably because I’m so petite and
18 Muse

tiny—only 4’8”—and my hands are so small
that the change he hands me back slips right
out. Uwu! I’m so embarrassed. My small face
lights up like a rose, and I waddle over to the
counter to wait for my mud.
When my drink finally arrives, I clumsily
spill it all over myself. This is part of my routine
at this point, so I pull out my portable closet and
get ready to change in the private section of the
Starlucks I own, but suddenly, the most handsome
man I’ve ever seen walks up to me with a
sexy snarl. He stands so close to me that we’re
almost touching, and I almost spontaneously
combust. Yes, I have asked doctors about it,
and no, there’s no cure for setting aflame in
the presence of hot guys. He towers over my
3’7” frame, and his murky silver eyes are the
same color as moldy fruit.
He suddenly grabs me and
says, “You—female. I demand
you take me out to
eat right now.”
O EM GLOB! Is
this it? Have I finally found
my prince charming? I
never thought an average,
quirky girl like me would
ever find love! My red face gets even redder as I
agree to the date. Immediately, my prince grabs
my messy bun and drags me out of the Starlucks,
leaving my mud drink behind and taking
me to Plebeians Should All Starve, the most
luxurious restaurant in the city.
In the restaurant, the man introduces himself
as Joe, the alpha and protector of the Reddit
Hentai server. So high profile! He has his
legs splayed out, with one hairy foot on the
table while the other stomps on my foot (his
manly odor is so strong!). Because he’s an alpha,
Joe tells me he can only eat raw meat and
demands I enter the kitchen and fetch it for him
“My soft, pale, delicate
skin, my long, curled eyelashes,
my small button
nose, and my red, plump
lips fill me with despair. ”
now. I tell him I work in a bookstore, not the
restaurant, and he shuts me up by grabbing me
and informing me that women belong in the
kitchen, and because of my negative canthal
tilt, I am so genetically inferior that most people
don’t even perceive my existence. He’s so
well informed! I call my hummingbirds to fetch
my prince his raw steak while we sit and get to
know each other better.
Joe continues serenading me with his pearls
of wisdom: “Women should never leave the
house unless their fathers or husbands give them
written permission.” He has such a way with
words. I never thought of it like that, but he is
right! I’m so petite (2’9”), cute, and clumsy that
I could never run a bookstore! Right then and
there, I realize that what I think is my passion
for taking care of books is
really my womanly passion
for caring for children. Joe
is right! I should be having
his children, not having a
job. From my right sock, I
pull out my spare engagement
ring and propose
to Joe. He pulls me up by
the hair and grabs the ring
instead, gently commenting, “Women should
never take charge of anything. That’s what Andrew
Hate and Hoe Rogan have taught me. I
will breed you like the ugly cow you are.” I am
so glad that a man has finally accepted me. The
check comes, and he digs through my pockets
for my wallet and pays. He really knows how to
take charge! We leave, and he drags me out of
the restaurant. Wedding bells ring in my ears
and drown out the screams of the people in the
background as my hummingbirds pluck their
eyes out.
The end.
Air 19

Untitled
Yvonne Locatell-Harris
20 Muse

The Old Tire Swing
Clarissa McCarthy
I sometimes think about the old tire swing,
The one that dangles down from the Darley oak.
How he pushed me back and forth, with a fling;
But now the old tire swing just sits and sulks.
But now, I hear carols from the choir.
I fear that right now I am not dreaming,
Staring at a box and black attire.
I want to go back to the old tire swing
Where black rubber was the only black seen.
My innocence was a double-edged sword.
But now, I listen to the eulogy,
Reaching for the old tire swing even more.
Oh to sway so softly on the tire swing,
So I would not worry about a single thing.
Air 21

The Ballad of Mr. Bones (A Sestina)
Emily Carbone
My life begins when you walk in the room.
Or, as she may joke with a smug little smile, it ends.
Your wandering eyes may not pass me once throughout your time,
But nonetheless, I wait lifelessly for a glance, or a word, something.
Or I merely flash my comforting grimace at anyone lucky enough to see
The hoarse whisper of life that I am.
You don’t care enough to ask anyone what I am.
I’m a solitary knight watching over the realm of the room
I see the window, the bird, the living. You probably think I can’t, but I see.
The wall is where my line of sight, where my freedom ends.
Not that I can move. It’s a figure of speech. Something
Like making quips helps me pass the time.
In a different world, I see the run down pub performances all the time.
I feel a gaze of love wash over my skin, over who I am.
I feel wind whistling past my hair and sing at the top of my lungs to something.
I kick off beaten up Converse at home, affectionately tap the posters in my room.
I read books, treasuring ends and ends and ends.
Ends that aren’t mine. Ends that I can see.
I guess the truth is that I envy what I see.
You throw your hours into passion, frivolous wastes of time,
Losing yourselves in mazes of laughter, bonds with no ends.
I’d like to squint my eyes while looking in dirty glass mirrors and see who I am.
Or do my homework in a dimly lit room.
Or wake up in fits of restless night terror, grasping for something.
I want to feel the crowded heat of bands of people screaming for something.
In my head it’s that band I want to see,
The one you play all the time in the room.
I can feel hours drip like the endless tap of maple streaming from a father’s little
tree. All of the time.
I don’t know which god to pray to for the strength to become who I think I am.
If I had lips to part, I might plead to you for an end.
22 Muse

But I don’t. So I am stuck in the waiting room for credits or “The End.”
Do you think the party ends with a favor? A bunch of hard candies, or something?
I long for the ground or skies to tell me who I am.
It seems I’ve forgotten. The only things I know are the things I see.
In my coat pocket I find rose colored petals of time.
Is it possible for me to ever leave this room?
Something happens to me that I don’t think you can see.
You hate how the end emanates off of me like the stink of rotten time.
And when the lights are off, I am only my rattling bones in this drafty room.
Pick Your Poison
Chloe Brackett
Air 23

How to Write a Personal Essay
Bebe Currie
Guidance XI
May 2023
Types of Common App Personal Essays & Example Introductions:
As you begin the great quest of the famed Common App Essay, take a look at these wonderful
examples from past students. There are many different approaches to a personal essay. There are
many common app prompts; however, note that you may also write about any topic you please.
Let’s clear up some misconceptions: you do not have to have experienced hardship to write a good
college essay. After all, most students at elite colleges have not experienced hardship and come directly
from a private school education, just like all of you. Adversity comes in all shapes and sizes.
You may not have systems of oppression working against you, but you all experienced the trials and
tribulations of sophomore year chemistry. So when beginning this essay, try to imagine times when
you struggled with something, big or small, and you persevered by working hard or even formed a
new perspective.
Before we break down the different kinds of essays, there are many tips and tricks to use along the
way:
• Use Descriptive Language: Don’t say “time is running out.” Instead say, “I looked at the
white, ticking clock, with its bright red second hand racing around in a circle.” It doesn’t matter
whether the colors of the clock are relevant to the story or whether such a description adds to
the message of your essay.
• Be Dramatic: Don’t just describe what is going on; describe how it made you feel. Don’t say,
“I was sad.” Say, “I felt like my whole world was caving in.”
Now, you want to think about your introduction. You must have a compelling hook and set the
scene for the story you are telling. The examples below do a great job of catching the reader’s interest
and setting up their essays by using three of our favorite approaches: The Niche Metaphor,
The Philosopher, and The First World Problem.
The Niche Metaphor: Think about yourself and your journey: Is captaining the soccer team
like being a train conductor? Or a war general leading your teammates into battle? Is Taylor Swift
your guardian angel, leading you through the blunders of calculus? See, it’s not really about you,
24 Muse

necessarily, but how outlandish of an analogy you can make about your life. The more unique
the metaphor, the better. This student did an excellent job demonstrating how noodles helped her
reexamine her life relationships.
Slurp! The noodles, with their snakelike bodies, slither on my tongue and down my throat. The
steamy broth envelops my nostrils, and I feel at home again. I twirl the noodles, counting one, two,
three, four, sliding down my fork. Every day after school, I microwave my cup of noodles for 3 minutes.
I punch in the digits on the screen, shining green beacons of light in my day. As I devour my
snack, broth rolls down my chin, forming intersecting pathways. Here, sitting at my dining room
table, I am at peace. The noodles encircle my fork, spinning around in perpetual circles. But not
all things last forever.
Last spring, my best friend of seventeen years moved to Wisconsin. Suddenly, our simple days
of laughter and inside jokes evaporated. For a while, I was lost, with only the painkillers of Face-
Time and Snapchat to ease my sorrows. As our contact withered, I became more heartbroken each
day. Then one day, I came to the realization that my relationship with my friend is like my daily
cup of noodles. It seems, in those fifteen minutes you eat them, that they are the most wonderful
guiding light in your life, the one thing bringing you joy. You wish there were a bottomless cup
of noodles, that you could sit and slurp them up forever. The truth is, a cup of noodles, and one
friend, should not be your only source of joy, and when you finish your serving, you should find
nourishment from a variety of snacks and activities. After my friend moved away, I learned how to
find joy with myself, my family, and my other friends, as well as diversifying my snack repertoire.
The Philosopher: One important aspect to focus on is the things that make you unique. This
approach could be about a niche activity you do or an unusual perspective, a hot take, if you will,
on something. Highlight your differences: in identity, philosophy, perspective. Sometimes, your
experiences themselves are not unique enough, so you must explain your unique ideas, ones that
will set you apart from other students. This student wrote about her hatred for the beloved holiday
of Christmas, doing an excellent job of demonstrating her unique perspective in a way that people
will understand. It does not matter if this perspective comes across as privileged or pessimistic, as
long as the reader can see where you are coming from. Colleges want to see how you think, not
what you’re thinking about.
Nietzsche said, “What is tradition? A higher authority which one obeys, not because it commands
what is useful to us, but because it commands.” I have always hated Christmas. People
masking their miseries under garlands and bright artificial lights. A sad excuse for “joy to the
world,” if you ask me. Call me the Grinch. Put me on the naughty list. Fill my stocking with coal.
See if I care.
My mother spends the first Saturday of December filling the kitchen with flour, eggshells, sprinkles,
and thick pasty frosting from dawn till dusk. She makes snowman sugar cookies that look like
Frosty has walked through the slush pools on the streets of New York one day after a snowstorm.
She burns her snickerdoodles and constructs, if you can call it constructing, gingerbread houses
that would flunk every residential building code requirement. My siblings excitedly await the week
Air 25

end after Thanksgiving when we deck our halls in garlands, wreaths, lights, and of course the odd
tradition someone came up with of putting a big dying plant in the living room. And what is the
point? People feel this obligation to contribute to this excessive holiday despite the ruckus it may
cause in their households. The cookies sit on the counter getting stale for the next month and the
tree will be thrown on the curb by December 26th, heading to the Department of Sanitation.
Gifts, or rather, disappointments wrapped in bedazzled paper, have never produced any serotonin
in my brain. I figured out that Santa wasn’t real pretty quickly. He got me Golden Gooses two
sizes too small two years in a row and the wrong American Girl Doll, so clearly it must have been
my parents, barely glancing at my neatly written letters to Santa. When Christmas, and therefore
Santa’s visit, was postponed to December 30th because of our vacation to the Bahamas in third
grade, I knew, definitively, that there was no such thing as the Ole Saint Nick. My parents just
didn’t want to pack an extra suitcase.
People say that Christmas “brings out the best in people.” To me, though, it’s always been
this surface-level facade of goodness. I think it’s all a waste of time if everyone’s holiday cheer turns
to New Year’s depression come January. No one seems to understand how I could possibly hate
Christmas. As I’ve reflected on it, I think that my distaste for the beloved celebration represents a
deeper resentment for the loneliness that comes from holding a rare perspective.
The First World Problem: Unfortunately, not many Marymount students have experienced
detrimental trauma in their lives. What one must do, if they have not had a troubled childhood,
is paint a picture describing how slightly difficult experiences were just as traumatic and impactful
as real trauma. This student, like many of you, has not experienced a great deal of difficulty in
her life. However, she tells a story of a smaller kind of hardship, and because of her emotional
language, it is just as moving.
“You’re doing this just to make me miserable!” I screamed, slamming my bedroom door and
running to the safe haven of my pillow. I wanted to pack my things and run away or set my backpack
on fire in protest. As I wallowed in my melancholy and irritation, tears gushing down my hot
cheeks, I understood firsthand what it meant to have FOMO — fear of missing out. Three days
before Memorial Day weekend, my parents broke the news. I was sitting at the dining room table,
innocently enjoying my afternoon snack. Their monotone voices filled my ears and sent a shiver
down my spine. I shut my eyes and covered my ears, like a child, trying to un-hear and un-understand
the words washing over me. Instead of venturing to Molly’s grandparent’s lake house for the
long weekend, I had to stay home and prepare for next week’s SAT.
I have always had a strong sense of fairness, of right and wrong. On that lonely way home from
school that Friday, while Molly, Lola, and Ella were swept away to paradise, I understood what it
means to be utterly wronged, to have your hopes and dreams ripped away from you. I was Sisyphus
watching the boulder roll down the mountain once again. Arriving home, I wondered when my
eternal turmoil would end. What I didn’t understand then was how transformative it would turn
out to be, working through that horrible feeling and miserable weekend. As hard as it was for me
to imagine, I would come to be thankful for my parents’ decision.
26 Muse

Sunlit Peaks
Noor Wilson
Air 27

The Illusion
Sofia Blankenbuehler
28 Muse

LaundroCat
Leah Backler Ogawa
I once saw Bat in a laundromat.
He chased Rat who ran under a mat.
But lo and behold Bat just wanted to chat.
But since Rat lay flat, as flat as a gnat
Bat decided to leave.
But as it so happens, the owner of the flat
Was none other than the marvelous Cat.
Now Cat hated to see Bat so unhappy with Rat
So Cat walked over and had a quick spat
With Rat about Bat who came to chat.
Over they went with a little tip-tap,
Bat and Cat went over and sat with Rat,
Who had now come out from under the mat.
So in a circle they all sat flat
And befriended each other over a hat.
Air 29

Asbury Road
Naomi Soeda
Beautiful
are the sounds the sunlit cornfields make
upon the mischievous movement of 4 little kids
as we briskly cut through
the once terrifying rules
made by our worried mothers,
trying to keep us out of the blissful green and gold.
Beautiful
is the collection of windy marks
etched upon the blistering black driveway,
telling stories of the first day we no longer relied
on two extra wheels for comfort,
racing each other at sunset,
our wheels turning hastily
as if the vanishing sun behind the hill
were our true destination.
Beautiful
are the soaring softballs
reaching up to the warm summer skies
during our family softball games in the front yard
that feel to me like running the bases
in Yankee Stadium,
the warm rays of the LeRoy sun
mimicking the bright floodlights of an arena.
Beautiful
are these memories
that reappear every 12 hopeful months,
stored up in an indestructible box,
waiting
until the next time I see
Asbury Road.
30 Muse

Mountain and Moon
Alanna Barry
Air 31

Solitary Stroll
Calleigh Blyth
32 Muse

Goodnight Kiss
Nora Heegan
In the sky, the pink meets the gold,
And as the sun sinks down, a story begins to brew.
Orange and pink, a warm embrace,
A gentle exit, the day’s last memory.
As daylight fades, the sun kisses us goodbye.
Colors splash, a painting so grand.
In the silence of the sun’s sweet farewell,
Embrace the quiet as the sun reaches the horizon.
Air 33

Fire
Passionate
Intense
Vibrant
Powerful

36 Muse

For your safety / Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
Yvonne Locatell-Harris
Please stand away from the platform edge.
This morning I walked onto a crowded train
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
To find a presumably homeless man asleep;
Taking up three and a half seats.
The New York City Police Department would like to remind you
And his empty wheelchair; blocking the walkway.
That backpacks and other large containers
Are subject to random search by the police.
Above him, the space for advertisement was occupied
Thanks for riding with us.
By an MTA sign that said: “Don’t be someone’s subway story.”
Ladies and Gentlemen,
We are delayed because of train traffic ahead of us.
I almost laughed.
We apologize for any inconvenience
Not because this man was a ‘bad subway story.’
Thank you for your patience.
He was only, I assume, seeking momentary shelter
From the weather and the harassment of police officers.
Fire 37

Please offer your seat to passengers with disabilities
Or to those who are elderly or pregnant
Avert your eyes
If you can bear it.
You’ll be standing up for what’s right.
Thank you.
Of course, the irony itself
For your safety,
Was in the cruelty of seeing the situation as ironic.
Please do not block or hold the car doors
While the train is in the station
The New York City Subway has no shortage of homeless people,
Most of whom struggle even more during this time of year.
And please do not lean against the doors.
The mayor’s response has been to send out more cops.
The New York City Police Department
Would like to remind you
Who are essentially untrained in de-escalation.
To keep your belongings in sight
And stay aware of your surroundings
Who are not mental health professionals.
If you see something suspicious
In the station or on the train
To harass people for the crime of being homeless.
Tell a police officer or an MTA employee.
Thanks for riding with us.
38 Muse

To remove them from the only safe and warm place available.
This is an accessible station.
To think of them as “someone’s subway story”
As you exit, please be careful
To dehumanize them.
Of the gap between the platform and the train.
Rationalize the privilege of ignoring your problems.
Thank you for riding with MTA New York City Transit.
Confusion
Sahana Seth
Fire 39

Cardinal
Zoe Michael Daraviras
I never knew that your heart could try to leave your body, like a fish desperate to
be pulled out of the water into the unknown, the salty rush of the wind has never
pushed me forward; I never had faith in things like this until my legs left my head
and followed my heart, tethered to that soaring red embodiment of all I want back.
The Taste of Memory
Yazmin Perez
40 Muse

Catch, Slide, Push
Katie de Weerth
We catch, we slide, and we push together.
Our exhaustion is never cause to quit
because we know that we must be better.
We show up regardless of the weather.
Eight girls, one boat—a family that’s close knit.
We catch, we slide, and we push together.
We throw up and collapse for our pleasure.
We smile in pain as blood fills our spit,
because we know that we must be better.
Regattas are our biggest endeavor.
Seven minutes—we race, do we win it?
We catch, we slide, and we push together.
The shoes in our boat are our fetters,
locked in with the girls on our team, we commit,
because we know that we must be better.
As we row, the boat feels like a feather.
Gliding across glass,
we catch, we slide, and we push together,
because we know that we must be better.
Fire 41

The Evil and Dark Diary of a Tortured Emo(tional) Boy
Norah Brennan
Dear Diary or whatever,
My name is Drystan Monwoe, and I am 17 miserable years old. Yeah, I just said that. Whatever.
Once, a long time ago, I was a bright young boy, and I had a bright future. But unfortunately
for myself, and for the happiness of this story, brightness hurts my eyes. I prefer the dark. I prefer
the dark because nothing in life has gone right for me. And because nothing has gone right for me, I
became an emo.
My first misfortune: I have younger siblings—three of them, if you can believe it. What on earth
were my parents thinking? It’s like they did it on purpose, just to annoy me. In addition to that misery,
I have to attend school. School. My parents pay for me to attend school. (We Are All) Friends
Academy is such a pretentious, prodigious waste of my time. On top of attending school and having
a family, I also have to socialize with others. Like at dinner parties. Or birthday parties. Or when I
walk my dog, Fluffy. Anyways, as you can see, everything in my life is dreadfully unfair, and I don’t
understand why I have to bear these burdens. Their weight on my shoulders turned me to the dark
side. My friends say that I’m like a real-life Anakin Skywalker. And I don’t deny it. These days, my
clothes are as black as my heart. Because I see the world for how it truly is.
Fake.
I hate everything and it’s all lies. My old “friends” were backstabbing liars who put on fake
personas to help their climb up the never-ending social ladder that dictates all of teenage life. Like I
said before, school is worthless, although sometimes it is fun to torment my teachers with my emo back
talk because they just don’t get me, okay? But anyways, whatever. Everything is cursed. I just want to
live with the freedom to make creepy, dark drawings of a monochromatic vampire (real art questions
truth) in my basement all day. Or whatever.
My point is, society is flawed, and we need to fight against it.
At least I fight back against society, I am always fighting back. How? I wear black drainpipe
skinny jeans with edgy rips. My hair is dyed an unnatural onyx black, and I added a neon green stripe
because what does my dumb Quaker school know about presentability anyway. My chunky bangs
hide my face because nobody deserves the pleasure of seeing my emotions—that’s private. My skin
has turned chalky and translucent because I shy away from the sun (it burns). The only light my
face ever sees is the glare of my computer screen as I surf my niche internet subgroups (r/whysociety-
42 Muse

isouttogetyou, r/everythingwrongwithAmerica’sschool system, r/whyorganizedsportsplotconformity)
to chat with strangers about the dreadful unfairness of my life. And my eyes…they burn with the
darkness of my secrets and with the Kohl’s eyeliner that seeps through my waterline. Or whatever.
I’m doing all of this to be exactly what society is least expecting. I keep them on their toes so that
they never know what I’m going to do next—fishnet gloves? A purple stripe? A dog collar choker?
Murder?
Anyway, enough about appearance—all that B.S. is what society forces you to care about. I care
about what’s inside me, about what lies within my tortured, dark soul. And I like to keep that dark
soul educated about the unfairness of society. Some people are surprised that I’ve read Das Kapital,
but I don’t even think it’s a big deal at all. Every functioning and intelligent member of society should
educate themselves instead of blindly following the propaganda that modern politicians shove down
our throats. SHEEP. Society is full of sheep. They conform and allow themselves to be silenced, and
they do nothing. Like little sheep. But whatever.
Because the revolution is here, and the revolution is now. Fight BACK. My friends and I plan to
storm the US capitol while playing songs from Hamilton, the musical. We should all be communist,
I proclaim. And if anyone tries to argue against me, I’ll just turn up “Hell Hath No Fury” in my
new apple headphones to an ear splitting volume and drown out their puny arguments. Blah Blah
Blah... Blah blah Baaa Baaa SHEEP. Sounds like someone doesn’t care about poor people! But I
do. I care. And my parents kinda care, I guess. Every year they donate $100 to the Salvation Army
out of the six-figure salary that they make on Wall Street. Or whatever.
Anyways, enough about politics. More about me. As that one song goes: “I walk a lonely road,
the only one that I have ever known. Don’t know where it goes, but it’s only me and I walk alone.”
And it’s true, I walk alone. Sometimes I feel like I’m crazy because I prefer to sit in the dark alleyway
corner and feed my albino street rat, Lord Edgar Death, brioche crumbs instead of attending my
family dinners. But songs like that make me feel seen, like I’m not alone in being alone. Sometimes I
write slam poetry to try to verbally convey all of these unconventional and explosive feelings I have,
these feelings that I’m not like other people. Or maybe, that other people are not like me. Whatever.
Here is one for you now:
It is called Paradoxically Compliant—Ode of the Sheep (Minion Edition).
(To the tune of the minions song)
Ba Ba Ba, Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Baaaaaa
(Song fades into sheep sounds now)
Ba ba ba Baaa, Baaa, SHEEP.
Minions, opinions, where did we all go wrong?
Fire 43

Baaa—sheep.
We lie in a heap, feet dark like a lark,
The scars in my heart are stark.
Minion’s opinions.
Do they have them? Opinions? You’re a minion.
But MOO MOO—I am Gru.
I stand above, black ripped gloves,
I step on you all with my hooves.
Clomp, clomp, stomp—love.
Where is love? Does it rise above
This darkness in my heart?
The beat of the drum is a mark—
Ba bum, ba bum, ba bum, ba baaa baaa sheep.
You are all sheep,
You follow blindly, kindly, down these winding roads of
Death, destruction, conduction, eruption—
When does it end?
Aren’t I enough for you, Mom?
I thought the umbilical cord tied us together forever.
Whatever.
I’m a bit embarrassed about that, but it’s just my diary I’m writing to now so I don’t mind sharing
the parts of my twisted, dark soul that might scare people away. That’s all I have for tonight, but
I’ll be back with more morose melancholy on the morrow.
Sorrows,
Drystan Monwoe
44 Muse

Thorns
Gemma Garbuio
Fire 45

Lonesome
Calleigh Blyth
46 Muse

Fallen Leaves and Cynicism
Julia Wasserberger
I could’ve been cynical.
So filled with anguish that
My heart snapped like tree branches,
Plagued with the destructive curse of autumn.
Julie London’s sultry voice on the record player,
My heart beating rhythmically in tune like the
Wings of the hummingbird when it is courted by its mate.
You think I am a tempest.
You think I am temperamental.
Sure footed and stubborn.
Did you know that I have been thirteen for four years now?
From the first indications of fall, from the first chill that enters my bones.
From the first smell of the rotting leaves, rich with the resolute nature of change.
I change.
I could’ve been cynical.
When the days feel longer, when the wind whips my eyes
Until my tears are pools and frozen ponds.
Maybe it’s because the sky darkens prematurely now.
Or because my favorite jacket will no longer suffice.
Or maybe it’s the stain of you leaving that haunts my autumn days.
Crows flying in formation overhead, their wings in unnerving synchronicity.
Julie London’s alluring voice on the record player.
When it skips, I feed the needle again and again.
I am a tempest.
I am temperamental.
But one thing I am not, is cynical.
I will not let my grief turn me into you.
Fire 47

Gallery:
Dunya Artal

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Amelia Gioia
It’s the most wonderful time of the year!
White flakes landing gently on cold, young tongues.
Warm small ones with holly jolly twinkling
and repeating great grandma’s recipes.
It’s the most wonderful time
for the same smiles to gather
around the forest green lights
and proudly sing of His birth.
It’s the wonderful
cedar scented flame
commanding my senses
and masking Her scent.
It is the
reminder
this time is
not the same.
It is
the time
when we
lost Her.
50 Muse

Rivers Won’t Stop Running
Norah Brennan
They’d tell me it’s fine, but they couldn’t.
Light once bright now fallen dim,
Her mind has become what it shouldn’t.
Her tongue grows sharp, spitting venom she wouldn’t,
And mournful too—all truths now grim.
They’d tell me it’s fine, but they couldn’t.
I was supposed to see her, but I didn’t.
What would I say to my empty kin?
Her mind has become what it shouldn’t.
Her memories drift away in current,
The river always raging—she drowns to swim.
They’d tell me it’s fine, but they couldn’t.
She dwells on what is lost and on what wasn’t,
Blind to the torture she forces on him—
Her mind has become what it shouldn’t.
So away she roams into a world of what isn’t,
Torn mind from body, limb from limb.
They’d tell me it’s fine, but I know they couldn’t,
Her mind is gone—all has become what it shouldn’t.
Fire 51

Septober
Lucie Coeny
52 Muse

The Humming of a Home
Winnie Newman
The faint breeze brushed through the air,
Pushing along the sound of the wind chimes.
Absent the roar of the city, my senses awoke.
The quiet of the country, moving at its own rhythm.
The hum of the radiator,
The trill of the phone on the wall.
Laughter of the neighbors, a crescendo of joy
Punctuated by the chirping of chickadees.
Book pages being flipped without a care,
The heavy winter jackets being zipped,
Clock ticking away on the wall,
Dim buzz of an unwatched sitcom,
An orchestra of more than noise,
Sounds that created cadence,
Music to my ears.
Fire 53

Circular Indifference
Tess O’Donoghue
Otis is his name,
known throughout Acapulco for his ferocity and his power.
From the deepest, darkest depths of the sea, sirens hear residents’ wails for help,
but stop their ears and swim away as his winds roar faster,
reach 205 miles per hour, and do not stop.
Charybdis has met her match, and Otis will keep spinning.
As I read the headline, my head is spinning,
but I pass through my day, and I do not hear his name.
No one bothers to listen to the victims’ stories–the kind that stick in your head–or
stop
and think about the damage he has caused. 3,000 people have lost power,
and the world keeps turning faster and faster;
corporations filling the atmosphere with fossil fuels have yet to offer help.
In Southern California, there are similar cries for help.
Fires consume the forests like bears emerging from hibernation, spinning
with dizziness and hunger as they recover from their fast.
The orange haze fills the sky, its dangers too numerous to name.
Valiant firefighters, like David battling Goliath, summon all their power.
It may take days, weeks, months to quell the flames, but they do not stop.
When will all of these disasters stop?
Gaia is crying out to us for help.
Scientists tell us that we have the power
to change course and navigate to greener waters. But the earth keeps spinning,
and ignorant institutions refuse to name
themselves as reasons she is crumbling faster.
In Libya, Hermes struggles to keep up as the waves come in faster and faster,
Each wave is overcome by the next, an animal chasing its prey; it cannot be
stopped.
Record rainfall ravages coasts and sends more victims to mass graves than anybody
could name.
Survivors fish for boats and bodies but can do little to help
those lost to the waters. The survivors are left heartbroken and helpless and
54 Muse

spinning
with anger at authorities who should have maintained the dams but instead abused
their power.
Ignorant institutions that clutch the reigns of power
keep failing to act. They send us back as our planet deteriorates faster and faster.
But as long as Mother Earth keeps spinning,
we will never stop
draining her resources, as if taking more and more could ever help.
We reject our responsibility, ignoring the consequences we’ll never name.
Will we remember the names of those we’ve lost and left without power
to resist the storms? I can’t help but wonder as disasters come in faster and faster:
What if the whole world stopped spinning?
City Storm
Chloe Brackett
Fire 55

Something’s Wrong with Me?
Calleigh Blyth
56 Muse

THINGSHAVEGOTTENWEIRD
Lucie Coeny
Fire 57

Red Leather Sketchbook
Calleigh Blyth
Reaching down into the bin next to my desk, I pull up the red leather sketchbook and place
it on the table in front of me. Memories of all the places I’ve been with the sketchbook flow
into my brain. Home, Marymount, San Francisco, and Oxford are just some of the locations
in my journey these past two years that I’ve traveled with this sketchbook. Flipping through
its pages, I relive a basic roadmap of all my adventures since the spring of 2022.
Colorful stickers litter the bright front cover.
An illustration of Tintin and his dog, Snowy,
riding in a fantastical shark submarine is situated
on the right side of my book. It was obtained
in Sausalito, a tiny city next to San Francisco,
on the same trip I got the book it’s placed upon.
There are two stickers above the submarine: a
cat holding a change purse and a pot of succulents.
I love cats; after all, I do have three,
but I don’t exactly have the greatest history
with succulents, as represented by my dead one
on this very desk. I got both of these from my
friend Hannah, who I first met at Marymount.
She gave me the cat one at school, along with a
few other stickers she offered to give away. She
gave me the succulent one when she and Alex,
another one of my friends, first came over to
my house. It was the first time they had seen
me since my fifteenth birthday, so both of them
gave me a present as a surprise. It made me
incredibly glad because I was worried that the
two of them wouldn’t enjoy coming because
commuting to Long Island is such a hassle.
That day was one of the highlights of my summer
before Sophomore year since I found out
that coming to Long Island for a day isn’t actually
a burden to my new friends. Various other
stickers from games, musicals, books, and films
I hold fond memories of highlight just a few of
the interests I’ve had since freshman year.
As I start to skim through the pages of the
book, I spot illustrations and comments filling
each page. Many of my old drawings could be
considered cringeworthy, like this really awkward
charcoal study I did that smudged all over
the opposite page, but as I progress through the
book, I can see the noticeable improvement in
my abilities. About halfway through, I drew this
sideways study of Lady with Hat and Feather
Boa by Gustav Klimt, arguably my favorite artist
ever. The waxiness of the pencils makes the
page so smooth to the touch when I glide my
palm across the page.
I flip forward in time, passing through
months of my life in an instant. Landing on
pages of pure text, I reread my old notes from
the Marymount Oxford trip last year. Shakespeare,
Samuel Johnson, and Oscar Wilde are
just some of the names I recognize from my
words immediately. I can visualize the tiny upstairs
dining room I sat in as I penned on each
of these pages. When I close my eyes, I breathe
in the scent of the Corpus Christi kitchens that
permeated my cohort’s classroom. The very
same classroom where my friendship with Lye
blossomed into what it is today. On the following
page are the shriveled remnants of the flower I
picked from the gardens at Anne Hathaway’s
cottage in Stratford-upon-Avon. I remember
sending a picture of it to Lye to sustain our rit-
58 Muse

ual of flower picking at Oxford. That moment
at Stratford was when I knew I needed to maintain
this new friendship, and those small flower
remains bring me so much joy each time I see
them.
With only a few pages remaining, my fingers
linger on each sheet until my eyes look towards
my following creations. It is almost bittersweet
to let go of the sketchbook that has traveled beside
me for such a significant chapter in my life.
I fell in love with new media and artists, I assimilated
into a new environment, and I made
new friends. Even though I ran out of pages in
this sketchbook, I know that I can always start
a new one. And so, I pull out a pristine new
Moleskine sketchbook out of my bin and start
placing stickers on its blank cover.
Flowers
Ava Campione
Fire 59

Dog
Gisselle Rodriguez
I clung to you like a wounded dog,
Whimpering, begging for the hurt to stop.
By some act of good faith,
Or a miracle sent from above,
You decided to take me in.
You fed me,
Dressed my wounds,
And gave me a home,
A place where I could sleep
And finally feel safe.
My weary heart was at ease for a while,
And I spent most of my days with you,
By your side from the sun’s awakening
To its final leave at night.
I was so happy.
Tail-wagging and contented barks
Became newly familiar gestures to me.
Gone were the torturous times of isolation,
Of pain.
You once told me,
With a smile on your face
And a treat in your hand,
That there is nothing purer than the love of a dog,
A creature with so much devotion and affection to give.
I believed you wholeheartedly.
Yes, I am the loyal dog who loves you!
Won’t you praise me?
Won’t you love me, too?
You never answered.
60 Muse

To think that a dog such as myself
Could ever be worthy of such care
Was so naive of me.
So pathetic.
You turned ugly.
I found myself shackled by a rusty chain
To a cold, metal pole,
Outside and alone.
When I howled for you
In the unending dark of the night,
You ignored my cries.
I sat in the blaring heat of the sun.
I sat in the soul-numbing beating of the rain.
I waited while the earth was blanketed by white.
I waited while blades of grass peeked out from their hiding.
All of this
I did for you,
The sole owner of my being
Who would never again give me a second thought.
I had hoped that somehow,
You would return to your former self,
The kind soul who took in the miserable mutt
Lying pitifully before your feet.
But,
No matter what,
I know I’ll come back to you.
I always do.
Fire 61

Cityscape
Emilia McHugh
62 Muse

Aug 15 and In the folds of the girls’ veil
Dunya Artal
Aug 15
How sweet were the days when we strolled in our alleys of pain
In alleys of pain lined with trees with broken branches
We, the Afghan girls, yearn for the fruits of knowledge from the trees of our alleys
We yearn for knowledge from the dust-covered leaves of these alleys
But today, they do not see us as human
They do not see that we are the parched daughters of the oceans of knowledge
They chained the books and pens in our hearts
The oppressors sealed and broke every window of hope for knowledge
On August 15th, I broke more than a thousand times
Because I am a girl, I now sit in the corner of my dark room
And far from my books, pen, and school.
The sun rose, but our new story is the color of our veil–
The story fell asleep and disappeared in the folds of the girls’ veil
A long sleep remained.
O Afghan girl! Come, tear this veil, and let your story be known!
Come and write the final chapter of this tale, heroic Afghan girl!
In the folds of the girls’ veil
from the twisted branches of trees
from the layers of our invisible hopes
from the sharp mountains full of darkness
from the place with a dark sky in full day
from the society with no place for me
from the society with no book, no art
in the day that feels like night
from imagining we have rights but not having them
I passed all these and came
I came to tear the veil
I tear it, with all my knowledge
Fire 63

64

Earth
Rooted
Stable
Strong
Growing
65

Connecting Lines
Yazmin Perez
66 Muse

I Once Wished to be Seventeen
Cecilia McCarthy
At eight years old, I yearned to be seventeen,
To have my own room and earn a spot on varsity;
I dreamed of being like the big girls and wished away the green.
I once craved the world’s secrets, to see the unseen,
But now a woman, I ache for those youthful days of simplicity.
At eight years old, I yearned to be seventeen.
In youth, imagination reigned supreme; in my invented nations, I ruled as the queen.
I rode my wooden coffee table as a surfboard through the rough sea.
I dreamed of being like the big girls and wished away the green.
Today, I miss being a dolphin, an astronaut, or the director of a movie scene.
I now long for lingering laughter rooted in true authenticity.
At eight years old, I yearned to be seventeen.
I reminisce about my absentminded doodles on the walls, tables, and TV screen,
Now, I reflect on the carefree days of childhood levity.
I dreamed of being like the big girls and wished away the green.
Youth is a cherry blossom: fleeting, beautiful, serene.
I’ll endlessly chase its fresh sensation, attempting to replicate the memory.
At eight years old, I yearned to be seventeen;
I dreamed of being like the big girls and wished away the green.
Earth 67

How I Learned to Be Proud to Be Dominican
Shirley Fernandez
In my previous school, located on the edge of Manhattan heading into the Bronx, it was always
easy to find other Dominican students, but my relationship with Dominican culture had always
been tumultuous at best. While I was often encouraged to partake in dance, language, and gastronomy,
I was unwilling. I figured being in a Dominican environment was enough for me, and I
didn’t put any effort into being an active participant in my culture. I was okay with being ignorant.
I was so excited to finally enter Marymount.
I was ready to be in a real high school setting,
just like on TV and in movies. However, they
don’t tell you how it feels to enter these elite
institutions as a racial minority. I found myself
dropping tidbits of Dominican culture without
realizing it: gesturing with my lips, sancocho,
and saying dique every other sentence. But to
my classmates, I may as well have been sharing
stories about living on the moon and eating
alien soup, given how unfamiliar they were with
Dominican culture. My classmates responded
with question after question. They were harmless,
but whenever someone asked me about my
hair or about how I spoke, it only served as a
reminder of how different I was from my classmates.
Gradually, I shied away from the questions,
hoping to draw less attention to myself
and my differences.
A conversation with my younger sister, who
was still in a primarily Hispanic middle school
at the time, helped me change my cowardly
ways. One day, she recalled talking with her
classmates about their love for mondongo, sancocho,
and casabe. Listening, I realized that if I
tried to talk about these foods to my classmates,
I would have to constantly pause and explain
myself. However, if I didn’t share my culture
and educate those around me; I would actually
be passing on that duty to the next Dominican
girl who attends Marymount. The questions
wouldn’t go away because I had avoided them.
Slowly but surely, I started embracing the
questions so a younger student would not have
to go through the embarrassment of feeling
alienated like I did. Now, recognizing my responsibility,
I was less ashamed of who I was
and flaunted my culture. No longer afraid of
being asked questions, I donned big hoops and
bracelets of mal del ojo, the eye-catching accessories
proudly proclaiming my heritage. I
felt more confident in myself now that I wasn’t
ashamed to be different.
Remarkably, I noticed that I too needed to
become more familiar with my culture, that I
had a lot to learn before I could instruct others.
Attending Marymount gave me a new perspective
on my own culture, and I became more
curious about it. Whereas before, I wasn’t as
interested in the rituals and cultural traditions
of weddings, funerals, dress, or food, I now noticed
these differences and asked about them.
I actively started to learn Spanish grammar
and idiomatic expressions and asked my mom
to teach me about Dominican dishes. I discovered
the history of the Dominican Republic
and its independence. I pushed myself to learn
bachata, salsa, and merengue and truly enjoyed
swinging my hips. I refused to let the unknown
stay unknown; I learned where the gaps in my
cultural knowledge lay and finally sought to fill
those gaps. This thirst for knowledge continues
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to shape me in all parts of my life, whether it be
academically, socially, or otherwise. Even when
I think I have mastered a subject, I recognize
that there is always more to know. Pushing myself
out of my comfort zone and being open
about my culture, I grew as a person, and while
I wouldn’t like to reexperience the phase of being
ashamed of my culture, I love how now, I
am proud to be Dominican.
Untitled
Yvonne Locatell-Harris
Earth 69

Self Portrait
Emilia McHugh
70 Muse

Home, New Delhi
Sahana Seth
The roar of the hustle and bustle.
The aroma of the perfect pani-puri,
The lively spirit of the majestic market,
Full of vibrant, colorful stalls,
The chaotic murmurs of people bargaining.
Diyas light up every corner as the celebration begins,
A festival of light: Deepawali.
We watch the patakas blossom in the sky,
Each so bright it blinds the darkness.
While the loud, rhythmic Punjabi tunes play,
Friends and family joyfully dance and sing.
We chitter chatter around the dinner table,
And gobble my Nani’s home-cooked chicken biryani,
Made from rich spices from all around the country,
Which I could smell from miles away.
Oh, how much do I miss
Home.
Earth 71

The Stomach Bug
Gigi Goodwin
There is a bug that lives in my stomach;
His domain is the size of my guts.
The bug eats what I eat and drinks what I drink;
He’s even allergic to peanuts.
The bug hibernates like a bear
And sleeps most weeks.
But every so often,
I can hear him wake up.
He moans and groans
So loud my tummy shakes.
I can feel his morning grouchiness
With all the shivers and aches.
When the bug is awake,
He rejects every piece of food.
I’ll throw up fruits and veggies.
Ginger ale is my only escape.
But my classmates tell me the bug isn’t real.
They say that it’s all a lie.
Adults told me to call the sickness that, so I am not scared.
They think that gastroenteritis would make me cry.
What about the chicken that makes spots on my skin?
Is she not friends with the bug?
Is my nose not winning the race he is running?
Wow. Now I really need a hug.
But why would they tell me this?
Why wouldn’t they tell me the truth?
Next I’m gonna find out that Santa isn’t real,
And that there is no fairy to take my wiggly tooth.
At what point will they stop sheltering me from reality?
Who decides at what point I’m enabled to grow?
This deception can’t last forever—
But when should children know?
72 Muse

When should I know that there is no bug in my stomach?
Am I growing up too fast?
Do these lies keep me naïve?
Or do they make my childhood last?
Rainshowers
Calleigh Blyth
Earth 73

Gallery: The Forest for the Trees
Dunya Artal
Liesl Hightower
74
Carolina McCool

Yazmin Perez
75

“Pull quote here”
Archway
Prishaa Shrimali
76 Muse

Grand-Quest for Grand-Parents
Chloe Brackett
It was a perfectly fine afternoon. I wildly flung open the door to my apartment, coming back
from school, and greeted my family before happily making my way over to the TV where I
could watch SpongeBob SquarePants. I was a mere third grader at this time, so of course Sponge-
Bob Squarepants was my beloved show; that afternoon, I was graced with the episode in which his
grandmother came to visit. I still remember seeing her in all her glory: her weathered, porous
face, with thick round glasses and bright pink lips; her purple hair, with its plush tufts; and her
little green dress, with pink ruffled accents. She would come to SpongeBob’s home with freshly
baked cookies and sweaters knitted with love. It was a beautiful sight to behold. When Sponge-
Bob was sobbing on the floor, Grandma SquarePants held him with her oddly noodle-like arms,
comforting him and giving him kisses. Indeed, Grandma SquarePants set my standards high.
That night at the dinner table, I turned to my parents and inquired as to the whereabouts of my
freshly baked cookies and knitted sweaters. Then it dawned on me— “mother, father: do I even
have grandparents?”
Technically speaking, I do have grandparents.
However, two of them are six feet underground,
and I rarely see the two who are still
around. From what I have observed, grandparents
are the family members who are always
proud of their grandchildren, and there’s this
unspoken alliance between them; for example,
you can rely on your them to heroically come
to your defense from your parents’ reprimands,
then watch your grandparents effectively reprimand
them in return. They share with you the
untold stories of your parents’ early years, and
you realize the hypocrisy– how dare my parents
tell me not to do foolish things when they did
them before me? With the leisurely hours your
grandparents have, they have time to listen to
all the stories about your day. Alas, this is my hypothetical
scenario if I did have grandparents.
In reality, I never got to hear about my parents
when they were kids, and there was never any
elderly wisdom or praise for me. When I was
younger, I always felt like I was missing out.
I’ve always had a distant relationship with
my paternal grandmother–– in fact, I’ve only
seen her maybe five times in my life, although
five times might be a little generous. She never
showed interest in seeing me, and she never
came to visit. One time, I went to Texas for her
birthday, and I gave her a birthday card I made
by hand. It showcased my mediocre seven-yearold
artistic talent, but it was made with love. I
remember gently placing my favorite sparkly
stickers on the envelope and carefully drawing
little doodles. I presented it to her.
She threw the card away. This demolished
my young heart, since the masterpiece I poured
my soul into was disregarded. From then on,
I stopped making intricate holiday cards for
her, and we lost contact over the years. A few
months ago, my father planned a trip to Texas
to help her out. I wanted to join, to rejoice
in whatever dubious delights Texas had to offer,
but more importantly I wanted to visit my
grandmother, whom I hadn’t seen for quite
some time. Thanks to my incredible persuasive
abilities, my parents—who at first thought seeing
her would trouble me– eventually relented.
I told myself I was going to visit my grand-
Earth 77

mother for closure, though I’m not really sure
what I was searching for—what closure did
I need? I never knew her. Maybe I wanted a
final acknowledgement of our relationship.
Maybe I am delusional. When my father and I
landed in Texas, we drove to the nursing home
in an obnoxiously red pick-up truck. There my
grandmother was, seated at a table in the lobby,
drinking wine with other elderly women.
She was getting old and losing her memory,
so I expected to be greeted as a stranger as
I walked up to her. Instead, she said hello. My
father introduced himself and then introduced
me to her friends as his daughter. Afterwards,
my grandmother said hello to him, and then
introduced me to her friends as her granddaughter:
she remembered me! At least that
was my initial reaction. When I thought about
it later, I noticed she never
referred to me as Chloe,
and she only seemed to
briefly acknowledge I was
her granddaughter after
my father mentioned it. I
contemplated. Maybe it
is because of her old age
that she had forgotten who
I am. Maybe I am still
delusional.
My maternal grandfather has been living
in Hong Kong. I have seen him maybe a dozen
times in my life. Since my mom is originally
from Hong Kong, she enjoys visiting her
homeland during summer vacation, and while
we are there, we might stop by for an abnormally
dull dinner with her dad. I’ve never had
a close relationship with him either, possibly
because he primarily speaks in Chinese and
lives across the world—or perhaps it is because
our personalities are quite distinct, since he
grew up in a different world than me, hence
his incredibly traditional and formal demeanor.
As a blunt Chinese man, his words could
often be soul-crushing, which my younger self
took to heart. I subtly distanced myself from
him. After the pandemic, travel to China was
“The concept of
family is diverse and
can extend beyond
blood relation.”
restricted, so my family could not go to Hong
Kong to visit my maternal family for some
time. The distance between us grew, but my
grandfather still has my contact in his phone,
since he used to call me on New Year’s. He
doesn’t call me anymore these days.
Every year in middle school, we had a neat
little performance in the springtime. The day
of the show was called “grandparents and
special friends day.” Since my grandparents
were never a part of my life, it was essentially
just “special friends day” for me. That’s what
I told my cello teacher, Ms. Jahn. I was a little
sad since I did not get the experience of the
“grandparents” part. When the day came,
despite the obnoxious spotlights above that
were obstructing my vision, I saw Ms. Jahn in
the audience. I didn’t have to stand on stage
staring at vacant seats before
me. After the recital,
I wandered over to the
audience to thank her for
coming to see me. That’s
when a child came up to
me and asked, “Oh, is that
your grandmother?” to
which I responded, “Nah,
this is actually my cello
teacher.” The kid was confused–
“where is your grandma, then?” I stood
there, essentially looking like a catfish with my
mouth gaping wide and my eyes awkwardly
staring. That was a fantastic question that I did
not know how to answer. After what felt like
an eternal moment of intense gawking, the kid
simply left to return to her grandparents. As I
continued making my way over to Ms. Jahn, I
acknowledged the obvious fact that we looked
nothing alike.
Later that week, I had cello class on Friday
as I usually did. Despite making irrelevant
comments throughout the class, or accidentally
playing the wrong notes and then leading it
into a transition of some obscure pop culture
song, often Meglovania, she tolerated me. The
highest form of honor I could receive was her
78 Muse

generous praise and affirmations any time I
played particularly well. When I did especially
great, she would even let me take a sticker.
Granted, the stickers are for all her students,
but I liked to think that I was special. One
time, my mother invited her and her boyfriend
to have dinner with us. At the table, while my
mother and Ms. Jahn were conversing, I introduced
myself to her boyfriend, Mr. Bob, who
told me that he’s heard a lot about me from
Ms. Jahn and that he was excited to meet me.
I was indeed flattered, for I had not realized
Ms. Jahn spoke so highly of me, despite all
the times I annoyed her. I got along well with
Mr. Bob, who is quite the amusing fellow, and
he was very blunt, but also kind. He told me
about his childhood, stories of Ms. Jahn, and
shared his elderly wisdom. It felt like a family
dinner.
From then on, Ms. Jahn would invite me
to holiday cello festivals, which were for much
younger kids whose miniscule cellos I would
be towering over, but she said it would be fun
to have me there. One day when the music
school was closed, she invited me to her home
to have a cello lesson. When I arrived, I was
kindly greeted by both Ms. Jahn and Mr. Bob,
and he offered me a warm cup of tea, or rather
he placed an array of various teas before
me and let me choose, before hurrying to the
kitchen to let the tea kettle boil. As I unpacked
my cello, I noticed the Christmas cards I sent
them every year were taped up on their walls.
After the lesson, I was brought cookies that
Ms. Jahn baked herself, and she handed me
a pair of socks that had little cello designs
on them as a late birthday gift. Nowadays, I
continue to have my weekly cello lessons with
her, and she listens to me talk about my school
day while I unpack my cello, as she offers her
wisdom from her ages of experience. Recently,
I have been invited to come over to Ms. Jahn’s
home this Thanksgiving to play cello with her,
and afterwards bake pies with Mr. Bob.
The concept of family is diverse and can
extend beyond blood relation. Ms. Jahn may
not share any of my DNA or look like me, yet
she has shown more interest in my life than
any biological grandparent has. When I walk
with Ms. Jahn, people will sometimes ask if I
am her grandchild. If I were younger, I would
pay undue attention to the difference in our
looks and probably judge the person’s eyesight.
How could they possibly perceive a granddaughter-grandmother
relation? Where is the
correlation between us? Do I seem Canadian
to them? I am not a moose! Now that I’m
older, I realize Grandma Squarepants actually
looks very distinct from her grandson– she has
always been a sea-sponge, while he has always
been a dish-sponge. Grandma Squarepants is
still Spongebob’s beloved grandmother, even
if they look different, because family is a more
complex concept than mere similarity in looks.
I have found family outside blood relation, and
Ms. Jahn compensates as the grandmother figure
I’ve always yearned for. So, to answer the
question of my youngling self, who wondered
if I even had grandparents: maybe I don’t
have the grandparents in the traditional sense,
but I have Ms. Jahn and Mr. Bob, who care for
me, and I’m content with that.
Earth 79

To the Buoy and Back
Gemma Garbuio
My brain became crowded with fear as I struggled to fit my legs and thread my arms
into the snug loops of my brand-new navy blue Speedo swimsuit. Now clinging to my
skin, the suit made a weak attempt at containing the swirl of emotions churning within
me. Already in the kitchen, my Dad was waiting for me as if this were our everyday routine. The
wooden stairs that led me to him creaked with each step, a steady metronome for the sounds of
the chirping birds outside. He handed me a banana and my favorite blue and white striped towel,
tossed the car key from his left hand to his right, and then gestured towards the door.
The moment had come, and I couldn’t escape
it. It was time for my first day of junior lifeguard
training, and the thought of completing
the distance swim through the vigorous waves
of the ocean weighed heavily on my mind. My
reluctance formed an invisible force that held
my feet to the floor, making it nearly impossible
to move forward. Nevertheless, I made my
way to the garage, guided by the words of encouragement
from my Dad, and I settled into
my familiar, soft, brown, leather seat. As the car
and I both hummed with anticipation, the gray
sky and misty air began to paint a bleak scene
outside. The what-ifs terrorized me as the car
pulled out of the driveway and onto the road.
Would I be strong enough to handle the surf ? Could I
learn the necessary skills to keep people safe? Would I
crack under the pressure?
Around 10 minutes later, the grassy dunes
seamlessly replaced the fleeting glimpses of trees
along the road. My heart started to race, and as
I pushed open the car door, an overwhelming
feeling of dread filled my insides. Hesitantly, I
stepped out onto the cold, wet sand, which clung
to my toes with every uncertain step. Each set
of waves pummeled the shoreline, taunting the
nervous faces dotted along the beach. Junior
lifeguards of all ages and backgrounds packed
onto the shore. I joined my group, group 10,
where I noticed a few familiar faces in a sea of
80 Muse
unknowns. Three lifeguards, all dressed in red
swimsuits, stood with our group. Their confident
presence provided a sense of reassurance,
which was abruptly interrupted by circulating
whispers and pointing fingers.
The lifeguards attempted to quiet our concerns
as they guided us to the ocean’s edge.
However, a bright orange buoy that bobbed
far beyond the crashing waves caught my attention.
Despite its distance, it seemed to stare
back at me, sending a shiver down my spine.
Suddenly, the lifeguards’ loud voices grabbed
my attention, diverting my gaze back to them.
“High knees into the water,” one yelled. The
other two guards promptly followed his instructions,
showing us exactly what to do.“Now, put
your arms above your head, clasp them together,
and dive!” In a matter of seconds, the two
demonstrating guards appeared unharmed beyond
the wave break, signaling for the group to
follow. While my mind urgently called for me to
run into the ocean, I found myself paralyzed,
questioning my capability as I watched those
next to me gather their courage and leap headfirst
into the water. I stood firmly grounded in
place, held back by my own fear, until a reassuring
hand on my left shoulder gently loosened
the grip of the emotional anchor that held me
down. With newfound ease, my legs relaxed,
and I was able to turn and face the lifeguard

who stood behind me. In that pivotal moment,
she shared eight simple yet powerful words that
would redefine my next course of action: “You
can do this. I believe in you.”
I joined the rush as determination replaced
my apprehension, freeing my feet from the
sand. When I dove under the first approaching
wave, I let my body embrace the cool and salty
ocean water. The lifeguard’s words played in
my head over and over again. You can do this.
I believe in you. You can do this. I believe in you.
You can do this. I believe in you. Her words became
a lifeline to me as I used them to propel me
forward. Quickly, time became irrelevant, my
surroundings peripheral,
and each stroke automatic.
Out of breath, I peered
from the water to see a
huddle near the fluorescent
buoy, which was now only
an arm’s reach away. As I
stretched out to touch it,
I felt an immediate sense
of accomplishment surge
through the water; this was
as much of a personal achievement as it was a
collaborative one.
The once daunting waves cheered us back
to the beach, making each push easier. The sun
broke through the clouds and turned the gray
sky blue. Its rays warmed my back as I made
my final kicks to the shore. Emerging one by
one, we were greeted by our fellow junior lifeguards’
applause and the encouraging smiles
from our instructors. Any previous nerves had
washed from our faces, and we were all beaming
with pride. During the commotion, I turned
to the buoy, and a sense of satisfaction streamed
through me. I thought to myself, I want to do
this forever.
Five years from that memorable day, the
excited giggles still echoed through the air. As
I supervised the new generation of lifeguards,
“I found myself paralyzed,
questioning my capability
as I watched those next to
me gather their courage
and leap headfirst into the
water.”
I couldn’t help feeling proud, knowing they
would soon complete their first buoy swim. As
each kid entered the water, I vigilantly scanned
the beach and noticed a single straggler. As I
approached her, I embraced the opportunity to
be a guiding figure for this young girl just as
that one lifeguard had been for me. Now, kneeling
beside her, I was instantly reminded of my
younger self, as her eyes reflected the same familiar
look of distress I had once worn. I knew
how she felt, and I knew it was my turn to share
the exact eight words that empowered me
when I was in her position. After a deep breath,
I told her, “You can do this. I believe in you.”
And with those words, she
took off. I watched her dive
bravely into the oncoming
waves, her perseverance
shattering through her initial
fear.
Soon, the group returned
to shore, and their
smiles and laughter replaced
the anxiety that just
minutes ago choked the
beach. This swim will soon become a memory
for them, just as it did for me. I watched
the juniors disperse after a quick two hours of
instructing. Many returned to the water, while
others laid towels in the sand or ran into their
parents’ cars. As I climbed up the lifeguard
stand, I recognized the little girl I had helped to
the buoy earlier that morning. I couldn’t resist
the urge to sprint over to her, and we shared
a victorious high-five. As I congratulated her
again, I reflected on the incredible similarities
in our shared experience. Walking away, I felt
confident in the enduring power of encouragement.
I knew we’d both finished our distance
swims with the ability to tackle future challenges
with courage and pass on this confidence to
others, creating a ripple effect of support and
self-belief.
Earth 81

Wispy
Leah Backler Ogawa
82 Muse

The Beat of My Feet
Annabella Paraschac
Usually, my run is set to the tune of the beat,
But today, my airpods lay hidden and unfound.
With a sigh for the silence I have to withstand,
I set off with an unplanned rhythm.
Music muffles my breath and heart’s race,
A barrier between my mind and body.
Yet, with each stride, the echo of my heart’s pound
Drums a resonant thump, which weaves into my pace.
The crunch of my sneakers hitting the gravel,
Once jarring, now sends inviting vibrations, urging me forward.
I can tell from the sway of the trees in the wind
That, in the absence of music,
The world begins its own beat.
Earth 83

84

Gallery: Yvonne Locatell-Harris
85

In the Stillness of Snow
Alex Harris
As the last tiny flakes of the snow storm fell,
I slowly opened the heavy porch door,
Stepping barefoot into the frigid white powder,
A gentle stillness filling the air.
After the endless whooshing of the strong wind,
And the constant soft crackling of the fireplace,
The stillness was quiet as a pause in time.
Struggling snowflakes sauntered past,
Filling all the crevices they could -
The window, the door, the branches, and now my face,
Though they were cold, I remained still,
To feel the slight pinch as they landed,
To feel the warmth within myself.
86 Muse

Trees
Dunya Artal
Earth 87

Untitled
Yvonne Locatell-Harris
88 Muse

Metamorphosis
Christina Isom
How did I get trapped in here?
Once I lunched on lollipops, now I sit in a shell.
In this shell, I should grow and prepare for a career.
Who I am, am becoming, and will be: It’s all unclear.
I break down, liquid streaking my face; I feel unwell.
How did I get trapped in here?
Soon, I relax. There’s no need for tears.
I take my time and absorb the nutrients expelled by
My shell. I develop, grow, and prepare for my career.
I outgrow the chrysalis that helped me cohere.
I hang on, reluctant, but then leave my shell
Frail and vulnerable. How did I get trapped out here?
My path is uncertain, and I’m filled with fear.
I can’t figure it out, so in solitude, I dwell.
I sit and reflect on how I’ve grown and prepared for my career.
What am I, who? It was supposed to be clear.
I’m uncertain about how to excel in this new shell.
Why did I get trapped here, in this big, wide sphere?
I must fly, thrive, and survive in this new shell out here.
Earth 89

Arrived
Eva Dec-Prat
90 Muse

Dock
Emilia McHugh
Earth 91

Palace
Alex Harris
92 Muse

Sympathy for the Salted Slug
Chloe Brackett
Slugs
are
snails
who
lug
no shell.
People spare snails;
they have stylish shells–
dainty swirls of porcelain.
But the slug doesn’t. He is naked,
seeming to carry no physical burden.
Yet no dignity or shell shields the salt,
and words are salt.The richness of his flabs
and glistening residue, all those words, all absorbed amongst his slimes.
If only he had the eyes to see himself. He survived the fury of the asteroids.
He needs to be moist, but he sheds no tears. Snails hibernate, but slugs
don’t shy away. Like Icarus, the moths fly towards the light and their wings burn.
And bees, I wish they could sting more times than once. Bees sting and
moths burn and they all die. Slugs do nothing but mind their own business.
And then they die.
A woman salts the slug,
Salt poured forth like a plague of hail.
He was snacking on a lone
Decaying cabbage in her garden,
Molding into the humble soil.
The cabbage wouldn’t have been served for dinner
Anyways. I hope the slug enjoyed his last meal.
He slogs around and leaves his scent
So he can find his way to his family.
If he ever makes it back, that is.
He could have lived up to 6 years,
Yet you had the audacity to salt.
It is all your fault.
27,000 teeth,
But he never bites back.
Earth 93

94

Water
Serene
Reflective
Introspective
Deep
95

Blue City of Sunshine
Sophia Morris
96 Muse

Surfing Pantoum
Julia Wasserberger
Pruney palms slice through deep waters.
My gap-toothed grin lets in gallons of salt.
My father is a mere freckle on the horizon.
Oh, how I want him to see me get this wave.
My gap-toothed grin lets in gallons of salt.
Two glances behind me, one to the shoreline.
Oh, how I want him to see me get this wave.
Squinted pupils scope the depth of its peak.
Two glances behind me, one to the shoreline.
Bodies align like puzzle pieces along the drop-in.
Squinted pupils scope the depth of its peak.
I mimic the motions of those around me.
My body aligns like a puzzle piece at the drop-in.
The noonday sun illuminates my board.
I replicate the motions of those around me.
The crest is a looming shadow yonder.
The noonday sun illuminates my board like lightning.
My body eases as it lets itself get carried by the breaker,
And the crest is a looming shadow yonder.
Can he see me from the beach?
My body eases as it lets itself get carried by the breaker,
But up the board goes, as I slip into the frothy swell.
Can he see me from the beach?
I leap back to my board as the set waves roll in.
The board goes up, and I slip into the frothy swell.
I must make it past the break so I can breathe.
I leap back to my board as the set waves roll in.
All I want is to make him proud.
I make it past the break, and I can breathe.
I hope he sees me, a freckle on the horizon,
And that he surges with pride
As my pruney palms slice through deep waters.
Water 97

Rain’s Reset
Ava Bitar
The droplets on the window, the puddle at my toes,
A gentle tapping on my window,
A rhythm I’ve memorized,
A soothing lullaby.
I could stand outside all day long,
Rain falling down my cheeks,
Washing away the imperfections
Of my day,
Clearing them from view,
Hitting the reset button,
Washing them away.
98 Muse

Morning Glow, Nightime Grace
Aliyah Andre
Bathed in morning’s birth, breaking through the sun, a black mother sits,
Sipping her tea with grace. Her beauty shines in the soft sunlight’s rays.
Woven through time, in every line in her face, her beauty blooms.
Her grace takes flight–A black mother’s beauty, a morning’s gentle invite.
As the sunlight retreats, her beauty glows under the stars.
In the timeless hours, her beauty persists.
Her smile gleams in the moonlight, her presence aglow
In the hushed night. Her beauty whispers just right.
Morning or night, her beauty, a timeless force,
Her radiant energy, a testament to strength and grace.
A black mother’s beauty, timeless.
A black mother’s beauty, priceless.
Water 99

When I Grow Up
Alexandra Woo
|| When I grow up When was the research paper due? I’ll be old enough to ||
|| do what I want without Mama or Daddy’s permission I’m so excited for Anna’s ||
|| party on Saturday! I’ll be an adult so I can do all the things I’m not allowed to do ||
|| and I’ll have so much freedom! I have to ask Mama if I can stay at school late to ||
|| work on my project with my friends… Mama and Daddy say that college will ||
|| be some of my most fun and happy years of my life I have sports practice at ||
|| five tonight and I’ll meet my best friends for life and I’ll stay best friends with ||
|| everyone I’m friends with right now I don’t want to go take my math test ||
|| and I’ll continue to get As in every single one of my classes Do I need to walk ||
|| the dog when I get home? and I’ll go out every night and eat junk food every day ||
|| and the best part is that I’ll be completely on my own! Has the homework been ||
|| posted for today? I will not be stressed anymore because Future Me has already ||
|| figured out the best ways to not be stressed I don’t want to tell Daddy my ||
|| science grade… and Future Me will be so cool because she’ll get to buy the ||
|| clothes she wants, the food she wants, and she’ll get to decorate her dorm however she ||
|| wants! I want to stay up late tonight but Mama will never let me ||
|| Future Me will be like all of the cool characters on TV How much screen time ||
|| have I used today? like Liv Rooney and Alex Russo and Hannah Montana ||
100 Muse

|| Wait, why is my classmate crying? and everyone will love me like everyone ||
|| loves Disney. She must have gotten a bad grade on that science test. ||
|| Future Me will go to an amazing college and she will be the smartest person in the classroom ||
|| I wish I could be just as smart as the girl over there and she will have the best ||
|| greatest strongest bestest confidence ever Maybe the girl crying wishes she ||
|| was as smart as her too and nothing will ever stop her! Ever! ||
__________________________________________________________________
________ - ______________ --___________+++______________=___________
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
./,/.,./-=-\\”\;\;’.,/.,.```\\`’`\~~~./../”;;\][\[{{}{,.?

\\ I don’t even want to look at my schedule for tomorrow. //
// Mom and Dad say that college
life-changing \\
will be
\\ Sports practice tonight is my only saving grace right now //
\\ and the happiest time of my life but who are my
friends right now //
// What does she actually think of me? \\
\\ and who will remain my friends when I leave? //
// That Calculus test next period will be the death of me. \\
\\ Will I still have the energy to keep on
trying? //
// I need to walk the dog to get some bad energy out. \\
\\ Will I have the energy to keep
going
and going
and going? //
// Do I even know what I want? How do I know what I want? Will I ever know what I want? \\
\\ The future is scary, I think. //
// I’m scared. \\
\\ I want Future Me to be proud of the decisions I’m making right now so
that she can look back to this time, laugh, and say that the hard work I’m putting in is for a
good purpose. //
102 Muse

I just want to sleep early for once. \\
\\ I want Future Me to truly be grateful that the college process is over
when she ends up wherever it will be that she ends up going to. //
// They posted more homework?! \\
\\ Maybe she’ll be like Liv Rooney, Alex Russo and Hannah Montana: //
// Wait, why is my classmate crying? \\
\\ a role model to her younger sister and friends. //
// She’s probably stressed about school and the process too. \\
\\ Will my new peers and classmates
like
me
institution? //
at that new
// I wish I was as put together as that girl over there. \\
\\ Will I be able to make Past Me proud? //
// Maybe we are all just pretending to be put together, because who can actually be at a
time like this? \\
// Maybe. Probably. Hopefully? \\
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Water 103

Embracing Change
Isabella Rosero
As autumn paints the sky into a canvas full of gray,
Daylight fades faster, and we mourn days unsurpassed,
For sunlight dwindles as the sun’s rays waltz away.
The warmth of the summer sun cannot stay
As it makes way for autumn’s chilling blast
As autumn paints the sky into a canvas full of gray.
Evening shadows stretch and begin their display,
Followed by the harvest moon and the golden glow it will cast,
For sunlight dwindles as the sun’s rays waltz away.
The leaves begin their steady sway,
Creating a carpet of vibrant hues that is quite vast,
As autumn paints the sky into a canvas full of gray.
But with this change, we will cradle autumn days
And make the most of the day’s forecast,
For sunlight dwindles as the sun’s rays waltz away.
As summer begins to fade away,
We will embrace the new season while it lasts
As autumn paints the sky into a canvas full of gray,
For sunlight dwindles as the sun’s rays waltz away.
104 Muse

Stairs of Blue
Alanna Barry
Water 105

A Flood of Waters on the Earth
Bebe Currie
You used to run circles around the rain.
Dancing in the deluge, you stomped in puddles, because back then
You rejected the covenant, in a bright jacket you
Stomped your patterned boots on dark, drenched sidewalks when everyone else was
away,
Inside the Ark, hiding from the flood.
Inside, just like you are now.
The city is flooding again, now,
And all the doors and windows are shut from the rain,
That has turned New York into a ghost town. A flood
Of water, broken umbrellas, debris, a memory of yourself, then
Full of joy, and it’s rushing down the street, washing away.
You’re sitting, inside, not stomping, sitting, wishing the flood also took you,
Took you back into that memory when you did not fear water, nor God, when you
Did not care about wet skin or hair or shivers, only the now,
The present moment, tap-dancing to the rhythm of the rain, until your parents
pulled you away
Back inside, as you are today, shoveling the rain
Out of your basement. It keeps rushing in, and your parents are afraid that ever
thing will then
Be wet and ruined because of the flood.
And you almost want to give in, to surrender to the flood,
Let it roll over you, let it seep into your skin and envelop you.
And even if you grew out of your boots, you can put on a less colorful jacket than
The one you had before. Your dad is yelling at you now,
Telling you not to go outside. He forgot to understand the beauty of rain.
But he gives up, too, grumbling about how the rebellion of adolescence will go
away.
106 Muse

And outside, you find that your ability to stomp and smile has not gone away
So you will walk through the downpour and you will swim through the flood
And remember the gentle greeting of rain
Drops on your skin. Alone in the street, you
Are making snow angels in the stream now,
Even if it will leave no imprint, then
At least you tried making one at all. Then
It’s almost as if Noah, too, had enough of the Ark and went away
From the angels and the covenant, and just as you do now,
He decided to go for a swim in the flood.
Wet hair and wet clothes are not the worst conditions of humanity, you
Think, and wonder why everyone grew up and chose to fear the rain.
So if Noah, then, swam in the flood,
Would God wash him away, or do the same to you?
Or would He be glad now, because you learned, again, to love the rain?
Water 107

Inner Peace
Emily Carbone
When your loafers are stained with daily muck,
and your hands are scabbed over with papercuts you don’t remember getting,
this is when the leaves of your afternoon tea, or the cards on your desk, will tell you
that the whispers of the house mean well.
And that it is not you who controls the motives of the grass.
It was not you who broke the stoplight this morning,
or you who told your mother to be mad today,
or you who wrote the wrong answers on your math test.
Perhaps that last one was you, but the duck that glides on the pond
and the rays of sun hitting the corner window
still beam at you placidly nonetheless.
The End of the World
Noor Wilson
108 Muse

The Mysteries That Lie Below
Sophia Rückriegel
Beneath the surface, mysteries below
Await in the endless blue, a realm one can explore.
In depths where wonders tend to grow.
Turquoise shimmers in the sun’s warm, golden glow,
Covering a deeper, darker, living world to adore.
Beneath the surface, mysteries below.
The ocean’s song – usually soothing, soft, and slow,
But at certain times, powerful, unveiling its roar
In depths where wonders tend to grow.
When one sees its beauty, curiosity does bestow,
So adventure awaits, and one wishes to implore.
Beneath the surface, mysteries below.
A little girl walks along the beach, watching the wind blow,
And wonders what she could find beyond the shore.
In depths where wonders tend to grow.
Blonde ringlets flash, caught by the undertow,
Pulled out to sea where waves lash forevermore.
Beneath the surface, mysteries below.
In depths where wonders tend to grow.
Water 109

Lament for the Old Lady (Acapulco)
Sophia Rückriegel
On October 25, 2023, Acapulco, Mexico, was ravaged by Hurricane Otis. Acapulco
was a former playground of the rich and famous in the 1960s and 1970s. The city
and its infrastructure have decayed over many decades due to the lack of global tourism,
as tourists have opted to travel to newer tourist destinations in Mexico.
Once young, beautiful, and refined,
she flaunted her unparalleled beauty
and the natural curves of her coastal vistas.
They admired her sparkle with envy
and they came from wide and far.
Everyone wanted to be seen with her
Sun-loungers and party seekers
came for the margaritas and the mariachis
and the discos decked in strobe lights.
They danced the night away in her embrace,
waking to the best huachinango in the world.
She was cheap but desirable.
Everyone wanted to come
soak up her humid rays
and frolic in her sparkling warm waters.
They came from wide and far,
enjoying all she had to offer.
But as she aged, the crowds were not too kind.
Her edges softened and sagged.
Her glamor faded.
Her movements shaky.
She was no longer so friendly.
Or a safe bet.
Or as beautiful.
They came from wide and far
for one last time
and moved on.
110 Muse

And so it was for forty years.
She grew old
and felt neglected.
She weakened
and she limped.
But her crystal blue eyes still sparkled if you stopped to look.
The old lady has now been undone,
fractured by torrential forces
that split her light and curves wide open,
upending millions,
hurled from the jaws of a violent night.
They mourned the loss of the Old Lady
and her drowned mariners
and wrecked hotels
from wide and far.
It will take time for them to come again.
Water 111

What Sings in Me
Norah Brennan
I’m sorry I could never tell you
Inadequacy deprives the translation—
That moment of clarity, fresh spring water trickling under my skin,
That beacon of gold shining through thunderous skies,
Is most certainly, yet unwillingly, mine forever to keep.
So instead, I whisper it to the willows as they weep,
And they dance with my secrets! Drunk on new feeling—
Alive with novelty, spun in wondrous spirit.
I couldn’t do that for you.
I’d have to rip my heart open for it to bleed where you could see it,
Naked and dripping scarlet wine, writing blood over tortured words.
No—it wouldn’t sound right.
It would beat out of rhythm, it would sputter and still before you could understand.
But maybe, for a moment, you would hear,
And you would know.
You would feel that cold spring water as it trickles down your spine,
You would breathe that sweet wind and dance with those leaves,
You would sleep in that bed, be warmed by that glowing candle.
But likely, you would not.
You would walk on, not stopping to see.
In a place where land is only dirt,
And silence makes you free.
And I would keep my foreign lands, my worlds of reverie
Tucked safe within my heart, softly singing to me.
112 Muse

Self Portrait
Maria Naughton
Water 113

Spiraling
Gemma Garbuio
Always bound up into crafted styles,
A weak attempt at control.
They scream at the flatiron’s heat,
“Let us be wild and free.”
Unleashed, they fall into a cascade of sun rays,
A radiant tale whirled in warmth,
A tangled golden crown perfectly placed,
A heat-kissed illusion, a woven dance of wavy lines.
Organic beauty unfurls with each unique formation,
Mimicking the sand’s gentle sway.
Soft, unruly strands,
Storytellers of the breeze’s hushed secrets,
Patterned like tree rings, they trace back time.
Beneath the soil’s cradle, roots interlace.
Overhead, the leaves rustle like pages,
Twist and turn in nature’s outline.
114 Muse

My Enemy
Emma Wagner
I beat myself up like a soldier in my own civil war.
I kill them. I torture and make them disappear.
I melt them away with my shiny new weapon.
It turns them straight, long, and soft.
But all this torture starts to get old.
My arm is tired, and my hands are sore.
My hair is shattered, fried, and dry.
So I take care of their wounds, wash and cleanse them,
Applying oil and gel,
As I face myself, before the mirror.
A slight smile looks back at me.
The burning smell fades away.
The piercing sound of my weapon is switched off.
My hair becomes big, bouncy, and beautiful.
My hands scrunch my hair instead, creating each curl anew.
Water 115

The Concert
Mia Tagore
Night slowly approaches as the stars start jumping.
Through the train’s window, the scenery starts to change.
The train rumbles past the lights
That begin to flicker by the moment.
My headphones guide the music
To my ears, filling them full of joy.
The feeling of joy
Warms me inside, and with a jump
The warmth starts to melt as the music
Slowly descends and the train’s course changes.
As it comes to a halt, the moment
Has arrived to see the new station’s lights.
Off the train, I’m on the street, headed to the stadium full of light.
I walk away from my day with all its work and stress toward joy.
I’m swept up in a stream of people, but I am calm in the moment.
Once inside, my excitement blends with other hearts jumping
To the sound that begins to change.
Growing louder as the excitement builds to meet the music.
We are ready to welcome the artists and their music.
The whole audience is brought together looking at the light
On stage and the big screen revealing the images change,
For the anticipated artists’ arrival, we have awaited with joy.
Everyone screams, rising from their seats and jumping.
When the artists begin to sing, we are all in the moment.
Spectacular movement surrounds me at all moments.
Full of lights, dancing, smoke, and colour, the music
Connects me with everyone else as our hearts jump
To the sound and lights,
Putting a big smile of joy
On my face as my mood and body undergo a change.
Each song plays, captivating, and changing
116 Muse

The entire audience by connecting us for the moment.
The artists have brought us real joy,
Creating, dancing, and performing amazing music
For everyone to enjoy, bringing lots of light
Into everyone’s day, making everyone jump.
And if this performance changes and unites us through music
In this one moment, then the artists have shone a light
That jumps from person to person, filling them with joy.
Canal
Alex Harris
Water 117

Ritual and Life in Life
Yazmin Perez
Ritual
When you do assignments for English and Art classes use a white board
Let your idea roam free in a white 2D surface
Use a black dry erase marker when disrupting the white space
The free space and idea are now complete opposites
In some way the idea is 3D on a 2D surface
If you don’t know what to write
Think like a fencer doing a double lunge
Approach your board with the marker at hand
Take a stab at it but pause for a quick second
Use the momentum to take another stab at it
The thing about writing and fencing is that you should always follow through
Whatever movement you had in mind in the beginning should be finished
You can retreat afterwards
But you change your mind and one second becomes two
Your opponent gets the advantage and strikes
Now by now you need a break
Too much planning is also not good
Take a sip of water or coffee
A cool transparent drink or a warm drink with a rich aroma
Take a sip of one drink
Get distracted by the tall plant in between the two cups
Remember that you nourished this plant and trimmed the dying leaves
Take a sip of the other drink
Walk back and realize that you have been standing this entire time
And now try to write or sketch
Life in Life
I felt out of place
Like a whiteboard leaning on a TV
Like the mixed taste of water and coffee
And the unsettling feeling in your stomach that it creates
Like realizing time passes and things change even when you pay no mind
The mundanity of life is comforting
118 Muse

But it’s better to enjoy time passing by with creativity and love
Than to just let it pass
So at the end of the ritual I remind myself to witness
The life in life
Feather
Meara Maulik
Water 119

Students submit their work either directly to editors or moderators or via email to the Muse’s
collective account. Our writing, photography, and art staff review submissions anonymously.
Pieces are evaluated and, when selected, edited and sometimes revised. Editors design the
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start from scratch each year, so every issue of the Muse has a unique layout and cover.
The 2024 Muse, Vol. XXXII, is published using InDesign (19.0.1) on MacBook Airs with a
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text. The cover is printed on 4/4 12 pt. C1S and is perfect bound. The font used throughout
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